This Is a Metaphor-Free Zone

I woke up at 3 a.m. this morning, realizing that I had crashed out on Finn in the middle of What Is Easter? and Spring Easter Bugs, two appropriately seasonal gifts from his Godma K.

What was supposed to happen? I was supposed to read the books, have a nice chat and song (usually one I have adapted from my favorite Shakespeare play. I know. Complete goob) and then get up, brew myself some Tibetan Eye of the Tiger, and work diligently on one of my client's projects until I hit epiphany or insanity. Often, I can't tell the two apart. I don't know that you necessarily should.

That didn't happen. Not so much.

Instead, I found myself at 3 a.m., with a book in my ribs, one in my calf, and one in my ear; with drool (I'm not absolutely sure whose) in my hair; some kind of heavy, round object (oh, that's a head) on my foot; and a few panels on a brochure left to write.

I can tell you, that was a bona fide extrication, my friend. I can tell you that with complete confidence, but, uncharacteristically, without metaphor. (Yes, me, at a lack for metaphor.)

But I can also tell you, again with complete confidence, that I love my job.